“Three ninety to Feedler for 'gas,' and a month's rent.” “We're bankrupt,” the other immediately declared. He rose, and proceeded to collect the tools that littered the floor; then he removed the sign, “Ball and Craik. Machine Shop and Garage.”, from the door, and the shed relapsed into its nondescript, somnolent decay. “There's a game with Honeydale to-day,” Anthony resumed his seat; “I'm to pitch that, and another Saturday; and, hear me, boy, I need the money.” Alfred gazed over the orchards, beyond the hills, into the sky, and made no answer. It was evident that he was lost in a vision of gloriously disrupted machinery. His silence spread to Anthony, who settled back with a cigarette into the drowsy stillness. The minutes passed, hovering like bees, and merged into an hour. They could hear a horse champing in the pasture; the wail of an Italian infant came to them thinly across the green; behind them sounded mellow the tin horn of the shad vendor. Anthony roused himself reluctantly, recalling the debt he had to discharge at the drugstore. Elbe's crisp five dollar bill lay in his pocket. “Later,” he nodded, and made his way over the shady brick pavements, through the cool perspective of maple-lined streets, where summer dresses fluttered in spots of subdued, bright color, to Doctor Allhop's. The Doctor was absent, and Anthony tendered the money, with a short explanation, to the clerk. The latter smartly rang the amount on the cash register, and placed thirty cents on the counter. “Two packs of Dulcinas,” Anthony required, and dropped the cigarettes into his pocket. He made his way in a leisurely fashion toward home and the midday meal. At the table his mother's keen grey eyes regarded him with affectionate concern. “How do you feel, Tony?” she asked. “You were coughing last night... take such wretched care of yourself--” His father glanced up from the half-masted sheet of the Ellerton _Bugle_. He was a spare man, of few words, with a square-cut beard about the lower part of an austere countenance. “What's the matter with him?” he demanded crisply. “Nothing,” Anthony hastily protested; “you ought to know mother.” After lunch he extended himself smoking on the horsehair sofa in the front room. It was a spacious chamber, with a polished floor, and well-worn, comfortable chairs; in a corner a lacquered table bore old blue Canton china; by the door a jar of roses dropped their pink petals; over the fireplace a tall mirror held all in silvery replica. “Thirty cents, please,” Ellie demanded; “I must get some stamps.” A wave of conscious guilt, angry self condemnation, swept over him. “I'm sorry, Ellie,” he admitted; “I haven't got it.” She stood regarding him for a moment with cold disapproval. She was a slender woman, past thirty, with dark, regular features and tranquil eyes; carelessly dressed, her hair slipped over her shoulder in a cool plait. “I am sorry,” he repeated, “I didn't think.” “But it wasn't yours.”